


For Once The Shadows Gave Way...

by 1f_this_be_madness



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: Between "Take Me Or Leave Me" and "What You Own", F/F, F/M, I just wanted to write about Mark and Joanne becoming really good friends, In the third chapter Mark has a slight panic attack so just be warned, Takes place during the midst of Rent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-21 07:46:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4821062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark Cohen and Joanne Jefferson are (now especially) more alike than they'd probably care to think...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After

After Joanne and Maureen's breakup, Joanne cannot focus on her work . . . and neither can Mark focus on his, not after Roger is gone, running away to Santa Fe.

They pass one another on the sidewalk a few times before Mark stops and reaches out to Joanne, touching her arm and asking how she is with his eyes so broken. Her face crumples as he asks if she wants to grab a cup of coffee with him.

“Why?” she whispers, attempting hostility, but only managing to sound petulant. Dammit. She doesn’t want to need comfort and companionship; she doesn’t want to admit how much she’d like to consider Mark Cohen a friend.

As if he can read her mind, he says,

“I think—I think you could use a friend, Joanne. And I know I could, so . . .” he lets his words hang there in the cold air between the two of them, feeling as if those words will fall to the ground and shatter like his relationship with Maureen, like his friendship with Roger, like his dreams of being a filmmaker. How poetic. How pathetic! Mark bites his lips and closes his eyes, face pale in a mask that hides his emotions—just like he hides behind his camera, Roger said. But Mark cannot simply stop it; going back over his film of the Life Support meetings, he sees how awful it is for people to see others in their group go, disappear, die. Never mind how horrible it was to deal with Angel’s death . . . . But Mark knows he would lose it completely if Roger died. He still might lose it, since his friend is gone, and the last words they spoke to each other were those of rage, of hurt, of hate. None of that matters now. He doesn’t know what to feel, and suspects that Joanne may be the same. He cannot stop himself from brightening infinitesimally when she sighs explosively and at last falls into step with him.


	2. Shadows

They sit sipping coffee at a table by the window; Joanne glares at Mark almost affably. That must, he decides, just be the natural resting position of her face. Neither of the two talks about themselves at first; instead they exclaim about the sight of Benny paying for Mimi’s stay in rehab. 

Mark rides his bike to visit her after work, though his heart tears open wider every time he sees Mimi there—the girl whose sweet voice is so full of life and hope but not enough strength to love herself as much as Roger wished her to do. Mark knows and understands that inability to love oneself BECAUSE of how much love one has for someone else . . . his pining for Maureen allows him to notice how much Mimi yearns for Roger—and he yearns for her—Mark constantly reminded his dear friend not to give in to the deep pain and thus die before his time.

Joanne watches and listens to this young man who feels so violently that he must isolate himself behind a video camera. Wanting love, begging for it—the way she also had; prostrating herself before her Maureen—Mark puts himself at her, Joanne’s, mercy now; the way he does with Mimi and tried to do for Roger. But Joanne is not so mired in her own hurt that she cannot reach out to give love back. She holds a hand out to Mark at this moment in friendship, a snarky smile illuminating her face again, as it had back when they two had danced The Tango Maureen.

At the result of this connection, Mark bites his lower lip as it begins to tremble and his eyes fill with tears.

“Th-thanks, Joanne,” he stutters. “I owe you one.” She squeezes his hand firmly before making a reply.

“Oh, boy, I know! You owed me one already, so this is actually number two. Not that I’m keeping tabs, though.” Joanne adds quickly. Mark lets out a wet-sounding chuckle.

“Of COURSE you’re not.”

“Exactly. Why would a friend do something like that?”


	3. Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark is forced to put his work away.

‘Will I lose my dignity? Will someone care? Will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare?’  
Those words pound inside Mark’s skull as he sits missing Roger, worrying about Mimi, and hating himself for the truth in everything that his best friend said; but he also can’t help thinking that he, Mark, really IS a ‘poor baby’ because he has to live alone after all of his friends are gone . . . he feels awful for thinking that way, when THEY are the ones living out their lives in pain . . . . Mark’s life will only become completely unbearable when others die, while for all of those people suffering, death may in fact be a relief.

In his room that he doesn’t owe rent on any longer, Mark sits going over film from work, growing more frustrated by the minute. He is in such a fog of focus that he doesn’t hear the four rings of the phone. It is only after the answering machine kicks in that he registers something. He had taken his and Roger’s “SPEAK!!!!” in unison out of the recording because he couldn’t hear that without feeling awful about the last time they’d spoken to each other. Roger had said he would call, but so far he hasn’t. Could this be it? His first attempt at reaching out?

. . . But no. After a moment there is a clearing of someone’s throat, and a decidedly feminine voice speaks. “Mark? It’s Joanne. Sorry to be calling so late, I just—I uh, it’s just that . . . God, I don’t even like saying this—but you know, Mark, nights are the worst. I can’t stop thinking about her and I just wanted to talk—but you probably aren’t even at home—” Mark had frozen but this moves him, and he slings himself across the room and grabs for the phone, slamming into the coffee table and falling. “Hello?” inquires Joanne as she hears a crash. “Mark, is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” he gasps out, teeth gritted in pain as he has just hit the table full-force. “I’m here, Joanne. I was just working but I need a break from my head anyway so you can come over if you want?” He closes his eyes at how UNSURE he always has to sound, how he can’t just say ‘of course I’d love for you to come so I can help you with your issues about Maureen because I'm so glad you're willing to let me help you . . . that I CAN help you, since I wasn't able to help Roger’, but that just isn’t the way of Mark Anthony Cohen.

Joanne doesn’t instantly reply, but when she does, her voice is soft and trembling with emotion, both grief and gratitude. “Thanks, Mark. I appreciate you answering in the middle of the night.” He shrugs and stands, re-wrapping his scarf around his neck as it has slipped and fallen to drag on the floor.

“It’s not a problem. After all, I’m the one who already reached out and bothered you when you probably didn’t want to have anything to do with me.” Silence on the other end makes him hastily explain, “That isn’t what I was thinking or anything, you aren't bothering me—I just meant that—”

“Oh shut up, Cohen. I know what you meant. I’ll be over there in a few minutes.” He can see the eye-rolling glare that she’s probably giving him right now, and it almost makes him smile. Her voice grows even quieter. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. See you in a bit, Joanne. Bye.” Mark hangs up and puts his camera, tripod, and projector away. Within his head the last words he spoke to Roger (before the other man left) are resounding: “Hey! For someone who’s always been let down, who’s heading out of town???” And with his stomach turning, he again hears his friend’s scathing reply: ‘For someone who longs for a community of his own, who’s with his camera, alone?!’. As he busies himself in cleaning up a little while waiting for Joanne, because he can't deal with the fact that this place is so damn messy because he doesn't want to admit that Roger is gone and hasn't called and might not ever come back . . . Mark knows and faces the fact that he's living a lie. 'Yes you live a lie!!!' He hears Roger's voice scream, that rough and ragged sound that pierces to the heart even when the words he uses aren't spectacular by any means. They are true, though—the truest words Mark has heard about himself . . . probably ever.

He sinks to the floor, curling in on himself and clutching his hair with his hands, muffling his face and voice in the scarf, so has to force “Come in!” loudly out of his closing throat when Joanne knocks on the door, and as she opens it, he closes his eyes because he knows he’s being stupid, that he should go to her because SHE’S the one who asked for help and HE should be all right, damn it, but he’s not.

“Bet you didn’t think I’d get over here so quickly, huh? But I brought something for us to eat together as a thank-you—figured since you’ve been working so hard you probably didn’t take a break to make dinner for yourself, am I right?” Joanne looks up after coming in and taking off her thin black leather gloves; her gaze focuses on Mark’s face and the tiny smile he shoots her before she closes the door and takes off her overcoat super-quick. “Jesus, Mark, are you all right?” After flinging her nice long cream coat out of the way and putting the bag of edibles onto the low table, the lawyer dashes across the floor and kneels to look into her friend’s face. “Do I need to call someone?” He shakes his head, and that makes his whole body begin shaking as he sucks in a slow shallow breath.

“No, no, don’t worry about me, Joanne—this is—I’m just being stupid, it’s all right, I promise. I’ve just had a long day hiding behind my camera and Roger was right,” he sucks in another heaving breath and his voice grows almost hysterical as he continues: “I’m living a lie, oh great God help me, I’m lying to myself Joanne this isn’t living and I'm sorry I'm so so sorry I meant it that I wanted you to come I want to help you feel better about Maureen because I'm your friend, okay? I promise I'll stop being weird . . . just give me a minute." She shakes her head and smiles in incredulity before shushing him and pulling his head against her chest in a firm hug.

“Mark, honey, it’s okay. You’ve just gotta breathe—keep breathing slowly, all right? I think you might be having a panic attack. And just because you want to help me deal with all of my shit doesn’t mean you have to force yourself not to give in to your own feelings of panic, you idiot.” Joanne's no-nonsense responsive manners make Mark laugh, and that gets him to grow calm once again.


	4. Pain

Joanne looks into Mark’s eyes to make sure that he has really calmed down a bit before she rises and holds out her hands to help him up. He removes his glasses and wipes his eyes before obliging her. 

“What did you bring for dinner?” He asks her as they go over to the table. “You’re right, I’ve been working so hard I forgot to eat. I do that a lot. How did you know?” She snorts derisively as she withdraws containers from the bag she brought.

“Tacos. Couldn’t remember if you’re a vegetarian, but I brought a tofu burrito just in case you were. And thanks to Maureen, I know you really well. She’s always giggling about how you get OCD about your video production. She says we’re alike in that way, we both go crazy when doing our work.” Joanne grows quiet as she realizes that what she said could make Mark feel worse—but he simply bites his lip and nods before getting two relatively clean plates out of one of the kitchen cabinets. He turns on the water, scalds his hands, yelps, and submerges the plates in the sink to scrub them vigorously. Joanne flinches at the sound of his sharp scream before realizing what he’d done and she starts laughing. Mark makes a face at her and washes the plates until they sparkle and his hands look as raw and red as the shells of lobsters do as they boil. Mark hands the plates to Joanne and retrieves two bottles of beer from the fridge, popping off their lids and sitting down to stuff his face with tacos. (He IS a vegetarian, actually—it’s a lot easier to not eat meat at all than to constantly worry whether it is Kosher. And no, he doesn’t consider himself an Orthodox Jew any more than he goes to the synagogue anymore, but some habits are so ingrained they just won’t shake free, no matter how hard you try to distance yourself from everything you knew as a kid because those views were so narrow and so WRONG.)

Just like the love you thought your amazing girlfriend had for you was so wrong, Joanne thinks now, stabbing her fingers into her taco and letting the sauce drip down onto the squeaky-clean plate. How could she have been so blind to the way Maureen was, to the way she HERSELF was, that she let herself get sucked down into a whirlpool that stole away her breath and her soul and her life?? She sits here with Mark Cohen and recognizes that they are both clawing desperately at the slick sides of a hellish pit of despair; clinging to life and light and hope so hard that their fingers are as raw and bloody as their hearts feel.


End file.
